Echoes
by TheKiss
Summary: Marika Saw this day coming. The day they would arrive at Fort Bandon, the day she would deliver Veta to her brother's care. The day she would see him again. But can she stop what may have to be? Can she stop the eagle soaring overhead?
1. Roots

**_A/N: Normal disclaimers apply to this and future chapters._**

**_So...this has been on my 'puter for a while. I finally broke and posted it. Go figure. I can't guarantee fast updates, but I will NEVER just leave a story, so have faith._**

**_I tried to do research on the Sarmatians and such, but this will probably be riddled with inacuracy. Just like the movie we all know and love. I do have a book on them, with shibby pictures, so some of it is real._**

**_As for the story itself...it will PARTLY be a re-telling of the movie, however I don't plan on stretching it out. Hopefully most of the story will take place after._**

**_Review and Enjoy!_**

* * *

The sword whistled towards him and he quickly blocked, dancing out of the way before attempting a strike of his own. The sound of metal clanging on metal could be heard through the camp.

"Good, boy," his father praised. "This time, quicker."

The boy did not complain, despite the burning in his muscles. He would make his father proud. He blocked the next attack, and moved even quicker, just as asked, but his father noticed the lessening strength in his returning blows.

"That's enough for now, Tris. I'm fast becoming an old man and you're wearing me out." The tall, lean man looked down at his rapidly growing son, warmth in his hazel eyes. Planting his long sword in the ground and leaning his weight on it, Jarek continued, "Find Geheris, go check on the girls, and see if you can't sneak us something to eat, supper's too far for me."

The boy grinned, a brief flash of white teeth before running toward the makeshift archery range to find his friend. Geheris was a year or two older than Tristan, making him around eighteen winters. But despite the age difference, Geheris treated him as an equal, and they were in many ways. Where Tristan excelled in archery, Geheris was better skilled with a lance, both formidable weapons for a horseman. The older boy was of the same height as Tristan, although his build was broader, already showing a hint to the muscle to come. Tristan was not jealous; his father had taught him that speed could be just as deadly as brute strength.

Waiting for his friend to let loose his last arrow, Tristan shouted over, "Hungry? Da said we could get some food!"

The two boys moved quickly toward their hut. Geheris and his little sister had come to live with them after their father Marek, a fellow Sarmatian who hand served with his father for fifteen years, had been killed. The young boy had travelled here, his baby sister in tow, at the last request of his dying father. Tristan didn't know much about what had happened to their mother, but he knew they had no other family.

They found the girls outside, braiding leather and telling stories under the watchful eye of his elderly Great-Aunt Zoya. The girls were as close as sisters, though they couldn't be more different in appearance.

The youngest was five winters old, and to his eternal annoyance, was clearly his kin. Despite her chubby cheeks, she had the same light brown hair and quick hazel eyes. Veta. Little Veta. His only sibling, whom, in the way of all brothers, he secretly loved, but would never admit publicly.

The older girl was perhaps six or seven winters, though he did not know for certain. Although Marika clearly resembled her own brother with her features and her inky-black hair, her appearance was still disconcerting for many. While her brother was a little unusual with his darker hair, his features were the normal sharp angles of the steppe-dwellers, his eyes flashing brown. She, on the other had had tilted light violet eyes, witch eyes, some said. And for a child, she viewed the world around her with surprising clarity. The tribe healer had said she may one day be a seer, but no girl had ever got the sight before womanhood before.

No one knew who their mother was; they hadn't even known that Marek had taken a woman until they rode in with a note from him proclaiming them as his. Who ever she was, she obviously wasn't Sarmatian. Some said she was from the north, one of the vicious Norse peoples. Some said she was from the south, one of the darker skinned people from the deserts. Others said she was from the east, Goth maybe, or even further, one of the tilt-eyed merchant people who traded in silks and finery with Marek's people, the Aorsi.

He had asked his friend many times over the years, but he had refused to answer, saying only that she was a good rider. High praise among the Sarmatians, especially when given to an outsider. It didn't matter, not really, because they were Aorsi, brothers to the Iazyges, and Sarmatians through and through.

As they drew closer to the hut, Zoya's head snapped up, and the two girls smiled at their approach.

"What do you two want?" Aunt Zoya asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion unique to older relatives who still remember bearing the brunt of childhood pranks.

"Jarek told us to get some food," Geheris told her, putting on his best 'respectful to elders' face.

"Nice try boy, but you'll just have to wait for supper like everyone else. Now off with you!" she said, waving her wrinkled hands at them, her eyes turning back to her work.

The boys however, remained standing there, Geheris shooting his little sister a pleading look. Marika shook her head, Veta working away oblivious at her side. Tristan watched his friend glare at his sister, jerking his head towards the hut behind the old woman. Marika sighed and rolled her eyes, giving a slight nod of ascent, and Geheris flashed a grin.

"Was there something else, boy?" the old crone said, not raising her head from her work.

Geheris elbowed Tristan sharply in the ribs. "Um, Da wants to see the girls. Don't know why."

His aunt sighed, and was about to speak when Marika very deliberately reached over and pinched Veta's arm hard. Tristan watched as his sister looked up at Marika, then belatedly burst into tears.

He knew the dark haired girl would never do anything to hurt Veta, and it was only his sister's ability to cry on demand that that made it work. His aunt, who was barren and therefore had little experience with childish ploys, fell straight into the girl's trap. Alternately fussing over the crying girl and scolding Marika, she was distracted enough that he and Geheris could slip inside the hut unnoticed and steal a few hot loaves from beside the central hearth.

They made their silent exit and jogged back to the training fields where his Da was waiting, leaving his aunt twittering behind them.

"How went the mission, boys?" Jarek asked upon seeing their return. The two proudly displayed the food they had swiped, and they sat down to eat, the girls soon joining them to share the spoils of war.

Veta was still sniffing back tears, her round face a blotchy red, and Marika was rubbing her ear, obviously a victim of Zoya's famous cuffing, but both had huge smiles on their faces. Any win against Zoya was considered a great victory in a battle Jarek had been fighting since he'd dared to fall in love with Tristan and Veta's mother, who just happened to be the old bats favourite niece.

Jarek looked at the two dishevelled girls, and back at the two, still chewing on some pilfered bread. "Do I want to know?" he asked, good humour twinkling in his hazel eyes.

The three eldest shook their heads, but Veta spoke before they could stop her. "'Rika pinched me so I cried so the boys could steal the food from Zoya and Zoya made her ear hurt!"

Jarek sat there, a smile tugging at his lips, torn between punishing them for the trickery as he knew he should, and laughing at the wickedness of it all. "I'm sorry, I'm getting old. I didn't quite catch that, did you say something?"

Tristan slapped his hand over his sister's mouth before she could naïvely repeat herself. Marika picked up the last two chunks of bread, absently giving the larger piece to Veta. The younger girl smiled adoringly at her older friend, but she didn't notice, already having turned towards her brother. Marika always seemed unaware of the way his little sister hero-worshipped her.

"Did training go well? Were you riding?" she asked in her soft voice, eyes eager. As good Sarmatians, the girls could already ride quite well, but Marika seemed to share her father and brother's fierce nature, while Tristan's own sister was happiest when she was tending to the steady stream of sick and wounded animals she always seemed to find.

Geheris considered her question for a moment, then nodded. "Better. No riding, just shooting." He shrugged. "I'm still not as good as Tris."

Tristan flushed, ducking his head.

"Be proud of being the best at something, not matter what it is. It's a gift the Gods have seen fit to give you. Like Geheris with his lance." Jarek grinned. "Or Veta with her tears." Veta giggled, then Jarek became mock-solemn. "Or Marika's ability to survive, torture at the hands of the most skilled and terrifying of enemies."

They all laughed at that one, and soon the two boys were bickering over who was best with a blade. The argument moved from verbal to physical, and soon they were playfully wrestling on the grass, Jarek shouting pointers while Veta clapped and giggled.

But Marika's young eyes were fixed on the horizon, beyond the distant camp. Jarek soon noticed her distraction, and the cessation of his laughing shouts drew the other's attention as well. They all squinted hard at the horizon, and could just make out the distant blur of riders.

Visitors weren't uncommon, whether they were traders, emissaries from other tribes or just travellers looking for some food and warmth overnight. But when Marika turned back to them, eyes wide in fear, they knew it was something very different.

"They're here," she said, her voice still soft. She turned and looked at the boys still sprawled on the grass. "It's time."

* * *

Veta wouldn't stop crying. She didn't understand what was happening, only that her brothers would be going away. Tristan didn't cry. He wanted to, from the loss, from the fear, but he just couldn't get the tears out. He was numb. He would leave in the morning, along with Geheris, and they would be gone for fifteen years, in some Gods-forsaken distant land, fighting, and possible dying for a cause that was not their own.

Geheris was quiet, and accepting of his fate. Jarek was trying to put on a brave face, but he knew more that anyone the fate that lay before them. Tristan could see his Da was trying to keep a brave face, but he was struggling.

The camp was quiet now, night have come long ago. Veta had cried herself to sleep, and Geheris had gone to bed early, stating that they'd need the rest in preparation for the long journey ahead of them. His normal easy-going manner was gone, replaced by resigned dignity, and Tristan didn't know what to say to his friend.

He hadn't seen Marika since the Roman soldiers had ridden into camp. No-one was surprised that she'd been right about their visitors, just like when she'd quietly told Jarek that the trader from last year would try and steal their supplies, or when she warned that one of Veta's new pets would bring sickness.

Somehow, the girl just knew; she could see the truth of things. She could see the soul of a person, see the truth behind the lie, and sometimes, the possibilities of the future. He wondered if she knew his fate. He wondered if he even wanted to know.

He was sitting by the central hearth, staring into the dying embers, listening the soft, steady breathing around him. The susurration around him was punctured by the occasional rustle of furs as someone shifted in their sleep. He hunched his shoulders, running his hands over his face, trying to clear his thoughts enough to rest.

He looked up just as the door flap was lifted, his troubled gaze meeting knowing violet-blue eyes, wise beyond their years. Observing – but never judging. "Were've you been?" he asked gruffly, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to a child.

She started at his harsh tone, hurt flashing through her eyes, and Tristan felt instantly guilty. He remembered that she was losing her brother too – the only blood family she had left. He shook his head in silent apology, his tense shoulders slumping once again.

After a moment he heard her move further inside the hut and settle next to him in front of the fire. They sat for a while, watching the small flames dancing, and Tristan felt the same hopeless desperation begin to crawl over him again as the silence grew.

Just as it was about to become too much, he felt a small hand on his shoulder, and suddenly the tears were rolling silently down his cheeks. After a moment, he felt her small arms wrap awkwardly around his neck and he held on tight, grateful for the comfort as he sobbed out his frustration. He knew come the morning he would pull himself together and be the man his father wanted him to be, but for now, he would be what he was – a scared boy who's life had just changed forever.

* * *

She didn't have visions of the future like Seers were supposed to, and she knew that was not her calling. But she couldn't deny that she had a gift, a knowing of sorts. Still being a child, she didn't understand all of the impressions she got. That night, comforting Tristan the way her own brother did when _she_ was hurting, she got a small glimpse of what would be. She didn't understand all of it, and told him even less, knowing some things were best kept to herself.

She told him what he needed to hear, but every word she spoke was still the truth. "You will live to see your freedom."

She felt him tense, and almost didn't hear his next question, his voice was so quiet and hopeful. "And Geheris?"

She frowned, and he pulled back at her hesitation.

"He will gain freedom also."

His quick hazel eyes searched her face for any sign of untruth, but found nothing. He smiled, his heart lighter. If Marika seemed a little sad, he simply put it down to her brother leaving in the morning.

"Sleep, Little One," he said, his own brotherly wisdom poking through. "Veta will need your strength come morning."

* * *

She took his advice and made for her sleeping palette. Tristan was right, it would be a tiring time to come, and she had already stayed up later than she was used to.

But though her eyes were close, Marika found little rest, her young dreams haunted by acrid smoke and the piercing cries of a hawk circling overhead.


	2. Berries

_**A/N: Thanks to **Topaz1302**, **theladyismine **and **makedpainter **for their reviews.**_

**_So here's the second chapter, slow I know._**

**_Review and Enjoy!_**

* * *

Two figures stood in a quiet copse of trees on what should have been a beautiful autumn morning. Birds were singing in the surrounding trees, welcoming the new day. Two horses were grazing happily nearby while a large dog was half-heartedly chasing rabbits in the distance, enjoying the mild morning.

One person was not enjoying the mild morning.

"Uggh," a muffled and rather mournful voice groaned from the figure braced against a large tree.

"I told you not to eat those berries," a second voice scolded softly from a few feet away.

The first figure answered with a series of coughs and splutters as she vomited against the base of the tree. The second figure sighed, and idly watched the dog running around the trees. "At least your body's getting rid of it all. That's good thing, right?"

"Easy for you to say," the first woman managed to gasp before once again bending over, this time dry heaving, her stomach having nothing left to give. After a few moments, the second woman spoke once more, sympathy in her tone.

"Can you ride? I think we're less than an hour's ride from the Fort. We can find you a healer there."

"I'm a bloody healer!" the first woman moaned, bracing her pounding head against the cool bark.

"Well I'm not, but at least I knew well enough to leave those stupid berries alone!" the second woman snapped back, before once again sighing. "I'm sorry Veta, but if you pass out, I can't do much to help you. I'd feel better if we were someplace safe, where someone with training could take care of you."

Veta nodded grudgingly and pushed off from the tree. Her companion steadied her, leading her to her horse, but leaving her to mount alone. A Sarmatian woman had to be dead and buried before she asked for help with a horse.

The second woman let out a sharp whistle before mounting her own horse with considerably more ease and grace. The large dog came bounding up with a friendly bark before setting into a happy gait alongside the riders.

* * *

"How much longer'll they be gone?" the feisty redhead asked, holding her youngest close as her eldest wrangled the rest of her large brood.

The older man sighed wearily. "I've told you already Vanora, I don't know. They were s'posed to be gone a week with the trouble to the south, but only depending on the time to took. They could be back and any point in the next few days. I. Don't. Know!"

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak there was shouting from the nearby ramparts at the main gates. The both rushed up to see if the knights had returned. Instead they saw two riders, one of the hunched low in the saddle and swaying slightly. The other was shouting back at the guards in Latin, a vicious looking dog next to her.

"Please, my friend is sick, and in need of a healer!"

"Well we'll not have you bringing any illness here!" the guard shouted back, looking unhappy that his morning had been disturbed.

The rider shook her head in exasperation. "There's not illness! Just poison from the wrong berries! Please!"

Jols turned away to find Vanora staring at him expectantly.

"What?"

"Well don't just stand there, let the poor girl in!" Vanora scolded.

Jols shook his head, but went over to give the guards the orders to let the riders inside. He watched closely as the two entered, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. They didn't seem like Woads, but it was rare to have visitors this far north and this close to the wall that didn't come with heavy guard.

He reached them just as the heavy doors slammed shut behind them. Looking closer at the riders, he was surprised to find they were both women – and young ones at that. The lead rider was tall and lithe, although by no means boyish. She had ink-black hair held back from her angular face in many tight braids.

She was dressed in heavy riding leathers, which judging by a few scratches, also doubled as light armour. She had a heavy brown cloak pulled tightly around her in defence against the chill air. Her violet-grey eyes were watching everything around her, and Jols was willing to bet from her alertness that she had some kind of martial training. He filed it away to tell Arthur when he returned.

The other woman was about as opposite to the first as she could be. While the first was pale and dark, tall and lean, the second woman was short and curvy, with a sweet round face and pale brown hair. She too, was dressed in heavy riding leathers and a brown cloak. However, she was hunched over in her saddle, her brown hair stuck damply to her flushed face despite the chill air.

Her friend was right, she needed a healer. Unfortunately the only healer at the Fort besides Dagonet had gone with the knights to help the wounded villagers. Jols sighed. He knew he'd have to do something to help, not just because of Vanora's disapproving glare, but also because his own conscience told him too.

"Come on then, let's see what we can do for her, eh?"

* * *

They ended up in one of the empty rooms in the knights' quarters. Jols chose them because they were better guarded, and he could keep an eye on them both until Arthur returned. He believed the woman, Marika, when she said they meant them no harm, but she also refused to tell him their business, and Jols' gut told him they were trouble.

He noticed something else strange. While their clothes were cheap, old and worn, and their supplies meagre and stale; the horses they rode where worth their weight in gold. Strong, fast, well-trained and healthy, they were too well-bred for two poor travellers. Jols wondered if they had stolen them from one of the Roman estates to the south. He searched for a brand, but found none. Still, it was very odd.

Vanora had taken on the task of nursing the sick girl Veta, and after being shown the berries, had confirmed that was the cause of the sickness. Apparently one of her children had done the same thing a few years ago. Jols wasn't surprised, the terrors would get into any kind of trouble they could find.

Vanora, after fussing about, feeling the Veta's forehead and heartbeat, pronounced that the girl would live, she just needed a few days to recover and get her strength back. The redhead was now bustling around, always the mother hen, building a fire, clearing the dust, and getting them settled.

Marika was now sitting next to Veta, not seeming inclined to leave the girl's side at all. The large dog, much to Jols' disapproval, had followed them inside, sniffed cautiously around the room, then settled in front of the growing fire with a soft huff. Not that Jols was going to argue with the great beast. He valued his fingers.

Vanora had chosen to simply ignore the large dog, and after a rudimentary sniff of her skirts, it chose to do the same. Like the taller woman, the dog appeared relaxed, but gave an air of readiness and suspicion.

Jols looked away to find himself being watched by disconcertingly knowing eyes. Feeling uncomfortable, he tried to fill the silence, telling himself he was just doing his job, getting as much information as possible for Arthur upon his return.

"You can stay in these quarters as long as she needs to recover, but after that you're on your own. And you'll have to find some work if you're wanting to stay. Arthur doesn't allow layabouts at the Fort. You'll make yourself useful, or you'll make off. No trouble from any of you." He said, nodding towards the dog to include her in his warning.

She nodded, looking thoughtful. "I doubt my business will take too long. Veta…" She paused, looking towards her unconscious companion. "…that will not be up to me." Another pause. "Arthur…he is the commander here, correct?"

For the first time Jols noticed that her accent was not Britain, but something elusively familiar. He nodded. "Artorious Castus is the Roman commander here, yes."

She nodded once decisively. "I wish to speak with him concerning an important private matter."

Jols watched her for a moment, but she didn't elaborate. "He's out with the knights, taking care of some trouble to the south. When he returns, I will let him know of your wish to speak to him, but it is his choice to grant you an audience or not." He paused, considering if he was pushing his luck. "If I could tell him what it concerns, he might be more inclined to—"

"He will see me," she interrupted with a faint smile.

He shrugged non-committally, but she was already turning back to her companion. With nothing else to do, he told Vanora to be careful, then returned to his preparations for the knights' return.

* * *

Marika watched her sister as she slept, conscious of the friendly redhead bustling around the room. Three of the women's children had descended on Mysi and the big dog was lying there good-naturedly while they tugged on her ears and clumsily petted her fur. Another older child had been sent to retrieve some broth from the kitchens.

From what Marika could gather, the older woman, Vanora, was the lover of one of the knights, and the children running around were their offspring. Marika got the impression that the woman's fussing was as much to keep her mind off her mate's absence as it was true concern for she and Veta's well being. Marika didn't mind however, the feisty woman was harmless, and the brew she'd given Veta had her sleeping peacefully.

Arthur. Artorious Castus.

She had, of course, heard the name before on their journey from the east, sometimes spoken in awe, other times in scorn. She knew he was the commander of the knights, the man who had been in charge of their safety for almost fifteen years. She knew he would see her, just as she knew he was a reasonable man.

It was not Arthur she was worried about.

She was drawn out of her thoughts as her friend stirred beside her.

"Mar…?" Veta murmured groggily.

"Hush, I'm here," she replied, gently stroking the damp hair off her friend's forehead. The younger girl was still hot to the touch.

"Here, get here to drink some water. It's clean, I boiled it myself not an hour past," Vanora whispered, filling a chipped but clean clay mug with clear water from a larger vessel.

Taking the cup with a grateful smile, Marika gently lifted up Veta's head enough for her to drink, and held the cup to her dry lips. The sickness seemed mostly gone from her, but she was still weak from the ordeal. After a few strong gulps, Veta sputtered a little, and Marika withdrew the mug.

Licking her lips to spread the moisture, Veta looked around with bleary eyes. "Where are we?" she asked, slipping into their native tongue, her voice still a little hoarse.

"Fort Bandon."

"We made it?" Veta asked with a dreamy smile.

"Yes little sister, we made it. The knights are away, but they should be back soon. Don't worry, I'll take care of everything. You just sleep and get some rest," Marika replied soothingly. The younger girl nodded, her eyes already drifting shut.

Marika looked to find the redhead watching them, a puzzled look in her face. "You were not speaking Latin. Or Britain," she asked in their common tongue, that of Rome.

"No," Marika answered, and Vanora had just opened her mouth to ask more when one of her older boys came bursting through the door, causing both Marika and Mysi to leap to their feet.

Barely noticing them, the child looked to his mother, his eyes shining with happiness. "Da's back!" he panted.

Marika saw relief and joy flash across the older woman's face before she replaced it with a mask of disgruntled exasperation. "About bloody time! I've got better things to do that wait around for your father all day!"

Marika understood the woman's reasons for hiding her feelings, she didn't want the children to see how worried she was when he was away fighting.

With a quiet word to Mysi to stay and watch over Veta, she silently followed the growing crowd of children following the redheaded woman as she marched towards the stables. But instead of following them to the knights, she made her way up onto the wall around the Fort, watching the arrival from a safe distance.

She watched as they entered, their horses heading happily for the stables. They were British horses, not Sarmatian, but still fine steeds. The lead rider was tall, medium built with dark wavy hair and Roman armour. Marika was willing to bet this was the Roman commander Artorius, although from the stories she was expecting someone older to go with the wisdom she had heard tales of. She of all people should know better.

She counted six other men, all in slightly different dress, all unmistakeably Sarmatian. At least to another Sarmatian. The commander rode his horse like he'd been doing so all his life, but they looked like they'd been born to it. And they had. For all Sarmatians, riding was as natural as breathing, and just the same for the people of the steppes, it was life itself.

She took them all in, noticing the differences and the similarities, the weapons and the armour. But there was only one that truly caught her attention. The last to come in, more focused on the hawk on his arm than the other knights laughing in front of him.

He looked older, of course, and messier than even the other knights, but it was unmistakeably him. He'd grown taller, and had filled out his lean frame, all sleek muscles. Marika felt something coil low in her stomach at the sight if him and frowned. This was not why she was here.

Before she could ponder it further, his hawk gave a shrill cry and shot into the air, circling ever-outwards above their heads. She watched confused as the knight disappeared after the others, and then with amusement as Venora waited, finally greeting the shorter of the two shaved-headed knights with a hearty slap followed by a passionate kiss as their children cheered them on from the sides.

Despite her curiosity about the other knights, Marika quickly returned to Veta. Finding the other girl in a sound sleep, she proceeded to tidy herself as quickly as possible, going so far as to strip off her riding leathers and giving herself a makeshift sponge bath. She ran her fingers through her braids to remove the worst of the leaves and other signs of travel.

Dusting off the worst of the now-dried mud from her leathers, she put them back on and removed her weapons. The ones that could be seen at least. It wouldn't do to meet with the legendary Arthur Castus looking like a mud-spattered barbarian, even if that was what she truly was.

Checking on Veta one last time, she sat down, awaiting Jols' arrival.

* * *

As soon as the knights had settled their horses and retrieved their packs, Jols made his way quickly to Arthur. Lancelot and the others were still nearby, but Jols knew Arthur had no secrets from them.

"Jols, get the word out, we need another healer in these parts. The Woads have been busy and it's too much for one person alone to handle," Arthur spoke as soon as he caught sight of the ever-faithful servant.

"Bess has not returned with you, sir?" Jols asked after the old healer who usually served the Fort, worried about the sick girl. Vanora had said she would be fine, but Jols always found it beneficial to prepare for the worst and hope for the best.

"No Jols, there were too many wounded, and they have not had a healer for many years. I left a unit there to keep the Woads at bay, but they can't stay there forever." He sighed, and Jols pitied his master for his worries. Arthur shook his head and smiled. "What news at the Fort?"

"We've got visitors, two of them. Women. Foreign would be my guess. One was sick, but Vanora agrees she just ate something bad. The other wants to talk to you, but won't tell me why," Jols relayed, hoping the whole situation would not add to their troubles.

"Where are they now?" Arthur asked, frowning.

"I put them in one of the old quarters," he answered, not having to explain what he meant. "What would you like done with them, sir?"

Arthur looked thoughtful, then sighed again. "I will see her, and it might as well be now. Have her brought to the main room, she might as well tell the rest at the same time. I hate having to repeat things."

"Sir, if feel I should warn you. Something isn't right with them. They're hiding something," he cautioned.

"Who isn't these days?" Arthur muttered, rubbing a hand over his face and stubbled jaw. "Alright, keep an eye on them, if you notice anything suspicious, let me know. Perhaps they will choose to share their secrets tonight. Lancelot, get the others, make sure they go to the main room _before_ the tavern this time."

"I'll do my best," Lancelot replied jokingly, and with a smile and a nod, he was off to round up the others.

"One day's peace. That's all I ask," Arthur grumbled. "One bloody day."

* * *

Tristan glared moodily into his wine goblet as he waited for the others to arrive. It had been a good hunt, plenty of Woads to kill, and he had been looking forward to having a few drinks at the tavern and getting some sleep, but instead they'd all been summoned to some stupid meeting. What did he care for meetings? All he needed was directions from Arthur, and he could do his work. The rest was all...pretty words.

The door banged open and Bors came in, complaining loudly, Dagonet following behind, quietly admonishing his boisterous best friends.

Gawain and Galahad were next, laughing over some rude joke, and Lancelot followed behind, quietly taking his seat just as Arthur entered, still dressed in his battle armour.

"We have guests, two women. One is sick, nothing contagious, and the other wished an audience. Jols is suspicious of them. Let's please hear them out, and quickly, so we can all return to our much anticipated rest," Arthur spoke briskly as tired as the rest of them. His last comment was greeted by a few "Here, here!"'s and raised goblets.

Tristan continued his brooding as the door swung open behind him, and he didn't even turn to see who it was. Just another bloody Britain looking for some shelter. Not worthy of disturbing his rest, that was for sure.

"I understand you wish to speak to me, and in fact refuse to tell anyone else you are here. I am Arthur Castus, and these are my knights…" He proceeded to introduce each in turn, and when Tristan's name was called, he nodded, still not turning in his seat. "If you would be so kind as to give me your name, and tell me your purpose here at Fort Bandon."

There was a pause, then a familiarly soft voice spoke, and Tristan froze.

"My name is Marika, and I'm here concerning my ward, Veta."


	3. Shadows

_**A/N****: Thanks to: **TempusSimia**, **Twitch666**, **cleo nightingale**, ****, **maskedpainter**, **amrawo**, **Hellion Hayley**, **.Devil **and **corbsxx **for their reviews of the last chapter! Also thanks to everyone who added me or this story to their favorites or alerts.**_

**_I told you I'd be slow on the updates, but I have to admit, this took a little longer than even I was expecting. As always, I will keep updating this story, even if it's sloooooooow._**

**__****I'm sure anyone who's written a Tristan fic knows how bloody difficult it can be to get him right. I always pegged him as a deep thinker, in a detatched sort of way. Observing the world from a distance. Anyway, I hope you like my Tristan :)**

**_Review and Enjoy!_**

* * *

"I still do not understand why you are here, Lady," Arthur replied, his attention focused on her. She watched Tristan out of the corner of her eye as she addressed him commander. He wasn't moving, seemingly frozen, his back to her.

"I am here to return her to the custody of her brother, and I seek shelter for us until that is possible. We will not be trouble to you, sir," she replied respectfully.

Arthur frowned, his expression matching many of his knights. Their attention was focus on her, and they did not seem to have noticed Tristan's severe reaction. "Why would there be a delay in her brother taking custody? Has he not yet arrived?" Arthur asked, disliking her vague answers.

She shrugged. "His is not free to care for another at the moment, although I believe he will be in a position to do so soon. If I am remembering correctly," she added.

Arthur tired both from the journey and his troubles, was quickly beginning to lose his patience, his knights not far behind. "Lady, I do not have the time or patience—"

He was cut off by the loud crashing of Tristan's chair as he stood and faced her with speed. He took one, two steps towards her, and then she felt his hand close around her throat. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.

"Hello Tristan," she greeted mildly.

The others stood in shock as she spoke, confusion crossing their faces as they realized this young woman knew Tristan.

"What are you doing here?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

She gave him a cold smile despite the warmth flooding through her body at the closeness of him, the feel of his calloused hands on her skin. "I already told you. I'm here to return Veta." She moved quickly, jabbing sharply in his stomach, causing his grip to loosen more in surprise than anything else. She took two quick steps backwards and two the side, putting some distance between them.

"Fine. She is here. You can go," he snapped, his eyes watching her hawk-like.

She gave him another cold smile. "You are not free to care for her until you receive your discharge papers. Until then, she will remain my charge."

"Your charge? Why are you here?" he demanded. The others were staring in shock; they had never heard Tristan speak so much at one time.

"She has no one else," her voice softened for the first time. "Your father died more than a year past. He charged me with her care until you could return, but Veta decided she wished to come here instead. She did not wish to wait, when there was nothing for you to return to."

"Veta _decided_?" he growled. "You let a child dictate for you? Why not, you are just a child yourself! And your stupidly risk yourselves, travelling here!"

Marika became furious. "I am no child! I have made my kills, I am grown. And you, Tristan, you do not know your sister. She would have come without me, and gotten herself killed. At least with me there she was protected!"

"She is sick!"

"She is fine, just foolish," she waved off. "Until you are free, you have no say. When you have your papers in hand, you can drag her back to the empty steppe if you wish."

She and Tristan stood, glaring at one another until Bors broke the spell. "Well bloody hell Tris, introduce the girl then!"

Tristan glared and straightened his seat without another word.

"Am I to understand you are Sarmatian, that you have travelled her from your homeland with Tristan's…sister?" Arthur asked, surprise evident in his tone.

She nodded once, moving to an empty seat at the table, but not sitting down. She ran her hands over the low back of the chair, where her brother's back would have rested. There were no markings to show it was his, but she knew all the same.

"That was Geheris'," one of the other knights offered into the silence. "One of our fellow—"

"He's dead," Tristan interrupted, his eyes once again watching her.

"I know. Woad arrow to the throat, three years past," she replied softly.

"How—"

"You lied," Tristan interrupted again, his voice furious. "You said he would live!"

"I said _you_ would live to see your freedom. I only said he would gain his. He has. In death," she replied, still looking down at the chair.

"You speak so coldly of your own brother?" he asked.

She finally raised her eyes to meet his, and had the hollow pleasure of seeing him blink in surprise at the pain in their depths.

"Geheris was your brother?" Arthur asked.

"Yes."

Silence reigned for a moment in the glowing room, but it was eventually broken by Arthur's calming tones. "Then you have my sympathies, lady. He was a good and noble knight, and died saving innocent lives. Both of you will of course be made welcome here," he assured, although his tone was a little cautious.

Marika finally tore her gaze from Tristan's angry eyes, and gave him a polite but tight smile. "I thank you, sir, and assure you we will cause you no trouble."

"Bloody hell she will, women are nothin' but trouble," the loud knight bellowed, but the grin on his face told her that he meant no offence.

"Well Tristan, aren't you going to introduce us?" one of the curly-haired knights asked.

Tristan shot them a glare then stalked out of the room without another word.

Marika watched him go, then looked back at the others as if nothing had happened. "I should probably return to Veta before she wakes alone," she added, then turned to the loud knight. "You woman helped us, please thank her for me."

Nodding at Arthur, she turned and headed back to the room they'd been assigned to, leaving the stunned knights behind.

"Well that was interesting," Lancelot replied sardonically, finally breaking the silence.

* * *

Marika sensed him as he joined her, glancing over her shoulder but not saying a word as she led him back to their room. Holding the door open for him, she grinned to herself as he hesitated. Finally! Something that made the ever-brave Tristan stop in his tracks.

She kept back as he walked over to the sleeping pallet, giving the siblings their space in the small room. Veta was still asleep, and from the sound of her slow, steady breathing, she would be for a while yet, unless Tristan chose to wake her.

Marika settled into the chair my the fire, Mysi shuffling forward and resting her head on her lap with a soft huff, looking up with big, curious eyes. She patted the big dog's head as she watched Tristan see his sister for the first time in fifteen years. He reached out a hand, hovering over her forehead like he wanted to push the damp hair back from her flushed skin.

But then he pulled his hand back as if he'd been stung, and he stood up abruptly, turning to her, but not meeting her eyes. "Is she truly well?" came his soft question.

"Yes," she replied, standing and taking a step towards them. "She is a strong girl, Tristan, she made your father proud. She has missed you greatly."

He nodded tightly and headed for the door, only pausing with his hand on the door as she spoke again.

"We both did."

He took a breath, then shook his head, not looking back as he left the small room.

* * *

"Do you think she's pretty?" Galahad wondered idly, picking at the remains of their meal, ignoring the early-evening bustle of the tavern around them.

Gawain set down his empty mug at looked at his friend with amusement. "Now I know you must be talking about Marika, because Tristan would roast you alive if he caught you even _thinking_ about his little sister like that."

Lancelot snickered from the end of the table, but knew well enough that Gawain had been thinking the same thing. So had he, for his sins. And there were a lot of those. Good thing he didn't believe in Arthur's God, or he'd be looking forward to roasting in hell.

Galahad looked around carefully before meeting Gawain's laughing eyes. "I was just wondering, you know..." He shrugged. "It's just...none of us have seen a Sarmatian woman in fifteen years, and I can't remember any save my mother. I was curious," he explained in defence.

"Well I suggest you keep your curiosities to yourself, my friend," Gawain replied.

"He's right," Lancelot added, much to the surprise of the others. "Best leave them alone. They'll be too busy with me, anyway," he added with a smirk.

"Is that so?" a quiet voiced asked from the shadows. Marika stepped out, still dressed in her riding leathers, this time with her weapons clearly visible, the hilt of her sword showing over her right shoulder.

Galahad stood abruptly, looking a little panicked. "Apologies, Lady. We meant no offence, we were just joking."

"Speak for yourself," Lancelot smirked.

Marika just raised an eyebrow and took one of the empty seats at their tale, sliding over the last of the cut meat. "Your friend is right," she nodded at Gawain. "You'd do well to leave Veta alone."

"Is that a threat?" Lancelot asked, still with a smile.

She shrugged. "Rather a friendly warning. She's a good girl."

"And you?"

Marika just grinned and popped a piece of meat in her mouth, sitting back in her chair. "So I believe Tristan skipped the introductions earlier...?"

"Surly bastard," Bors bellowed with a grin. "I'm Bors, and this ugly brute is Dagonet." A silent nod from the ugly brute in question. "This here's Galahad – sit down boy! – Gawain, and Lanc—"

"Lancelot, at your service anytime, Lady," he interrupted with a nod and a smirk. "And you are Geheris' sister. He spoke about you from time to time."

He watched as the grin faded from her face, noting the guilt that flashed through her eyes. It tugged at his curiosity that had already been piqued by the cryptic argument between her and Tristan. Something was certainly going on beyond her simply escorting Tristan's sister, and until the girl was back on her feet, Marika was the only source of information. After almost fifteen years, he knew well enough that Tristan wasn't going to talk.

"Yes well, it doesn't really matter now, does it?" she shrugged, apparently just as willing to talk as the silent scout.

"You don't wish to hear about your brother?" Dagonet asked, a thoughtful look on the big man's face. It seemed Lancelot wasn't the only one curious about the conversation.

"No."

"Well what about home? The Iazyges are one of the furthest lands from here, you must have heard news from the other tribes," Gawain asked hopefully.

Lancelot noticed the way she paused and watched Gawain before answering carefully. "We didn't spend much time in Sarmatian lands, our journey skirted the Empire as much as possible. All I heard from the others was what we learned before we left. All was well...but there was a sickness that travelled through the tribes before we left," she shrugged.

Lancelot knew the others were secretly wishing for news from their own tribes, the mention of family, but he'd long ago given up on such things. Wishing for things that would never be was useless. He'd realised long ago that he'd die in Britain, and now that his freedom was so close, he was struggling not to let those lost hopes resurface and overwhelm him.

"Was it bad?" Galahad asked, worry on his face.

She shrugged. "Some died, mostly those who were already weak. It was not the worst our people have seen. But it weakened Jarek's heart; he was not the same after. Most of our tribe dissipated, going to live with family in stronger tribes. There was nothing left."

"Why did you not join them?" Gawain asked curiously. "Travelling across the breadth of the Roman Empire isn't exactly the easy option."

"True enough," she sighed. "But Veta is my only family, and Tristan is _her _only family. She wished to find him, and after their father passed there was nothing keeping us there."

"She sounds like quite the stubborn child," Lancelot grinned.

"Ugh, she is," Marika groaned, grinned back.

"So what do you plan on doing while you're here?" Bors asked. "If you're needing work, I'm sure Vanora'll find you something."

Marika smiled politely. "Perhaps Veta will need something. I was planning on doing some hunting, selling the pelts," she shrugged.

The men paused, exchanging worried glances.

"Lady, these forests are dangerous, even this side of the wall. The Woads roam where they will, and these forests are their home. They disappear like ghosts. It is not safe, even for us men. You would do better finding a job serving in the tavern or cleaning the barracks..." Galahad drifted off; finally realising he had made some sort of mistake, although Lancelot was certain the boy didn't know where he'd gone wrong, full of good intentions as he was.

Marika's face was stony as she stood, her eye cold. "I am a Sarmatian woman. A warrior. I've made my kills. The Woads have no quarrel with me; I take nothing from them. They will not harm me."

Normally a statement like that would reek of arrogance, Lancelot had heard similar more than once from jumped-up Roman soldiers who thought they were superior to the natives because they were more 'civilized'. All of them long dead. But that fervour was missing from Marika, making him pause in his own warnings. She just seemed _sure_ that she'd be safe.

"I'm sorry, I—" Galahad began, but was quickly cut off.

"Excuse me, I must go check on Veta," Marika added with cool politeness, far different from her open tone before. "Goodbye."

"I didn't..." Galahad trailed off, and Gawain clapped him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry. I'm sure she won't kill you," Gawain teased.

"Nah, he's right," Bors added with a grin. "She'll probably just never talk to you again boy."

Galahad sighed and refilled his glass, and Lancelot just smirked, looking out over the increasingly large crowd.

* * *

Tristan watched them from the shadows, unable to hear their words from his rooftop perch. He could go closer, but unless she'd lost her touch in the last fifteen years, she'd know he was there. She'd always been the best at hide and seek.

She was up to something, there had to be a reason why they'd travelled so far. He'd talk to Veta when she woke. His sister would give him the answers he wanted, none of the snapping, biting responses he got from Marika.

Why was she so rude with him, and yet there she was, smiling with his brothers in arms? It had to be part of her plan. To charm them into helping her, and making him seem irrational in contrast. He felt a burning whirlwind of rage build inside him, and anyone who knew him would recognize the danger of the fury. He was surprised himself at the strength of it, and reached around for the source.

Logic told him it must be his protective streak, angry on behalf of his brothers. There was nothing else it could possibly be, no other reason why he'd feel such anger watching her trade smirks with Lancelot.

But a moment later, whatever Galahad said to her had her hackles up, and she swiftly left their company, leaving them to their own devices. He briefly considered going down and joining them for the evening – but he didn't have the patience to do so tonight, his mood was too dark.

Instead he stuck to the shadows, tracking Marika through the dark streets as she headed back to the barracks. It didn't take him long to notice the two shadowed figures following her, a couple Roman soldiers who thought they might try their luck with a woman on her own.

He was tempted to dispatch them quickly and silently, knowing what lonely men could so to a girl in a dark alley. But part of him – the spiteful part perhaps – wanted her to see the dangers she faced in this place. He would not allow harm to come to her. No matter what his brothers in arms believed, he was not a sadist. He took no pleasure in the innocent suffering – evil men, yes, but not foolish but still essentially _good_ little seers. Still, he would allow them to make their presence known enough to shake her up a little and make her open her eyes to the truth.

And perhaps, just a little, he wanted to see if her claims were true, if she really was the skilled warrior she claimed to be, and not just a girl with a flash of fight in her eyes.

He watched with a self satisfied smirk as she took a wrong turn, not even hesitating as she walked into a dead-end, tall buildings surrounding her and no place to hide. But to his surprise, she didn't falter, simply turned around to face the mouth of the alley and...waited.

So she was skilled enough to notice they were following her. Perhaps they had made some sound to give themselves away that hadn't filtered up to his perch on the rooftops.

The soldiers walked to the mouth of the alley, their movements no long furtive, but instead touched with a cocky swagger. She was trapped, powerless - and they knew it.

This time he was close enough to hear the words exchanged, positioned as he was to step in if things went too far. He watched with curious hazel eyes as Marika didn't flinch, instead levelling her icy gaze on them and speaking.

"Leave now and I won't inform your Commander that you're stalking women in the night," she declared, her voice steady and even. So she had a backbone, he already knew that. But if she couldn't backup her bravado, that attitude was worse than backing down completely.

"Who's going to believe you? You're just some passing whore. We heard you at the gates, you and your sick friend, just stopping for a little rest. Do you really think our Roman Commander will believe a travelling wench over his own men? Even more, do you think he even cares?" he added with a smirk, and he stepped forward, his movement mirrored by his companion.

Tristian reasoned that now would be the time to scare a little sense into them, to throw in their face that she and Veta weren't just passing travellers, that they were guests of Arthur's, that Veta's brother was Sarmatian, that _her_ brother was Sarmatian. But she stayed silent on the subject, a wry smile pulling her lips.

"It's not Arthur you should be worried about," she said softly, almost sympathetically.

The other soldier spoke up now, and there was something harsher in his words, more twisted in his face. The first solider was just looking for a good time, regardless of whether she was willing or not. Tristan had met enough men with that darkness in their souls to know the man speaking was one of those who took pleasure in the suffering of others, that he was a man who couldn't find release unless the body beneath him was begging for mercy.

"Don't think a little flirtation with those Sarmatian bastards will save you, whore. You ain't their woman, you haven't had time to spread your legs for any of them. Scream all you want," he grinned, as though the thought pleased him. "They're too far to hear. And at this time of night, nobody's going to come to your rescue."

She just stood there, with that faint smile on her face as they approached her. They didn't seem to notice – or care – about the sword at her back, but she didn't reach for it either. Tristan knew she probably had a dozen other blades secreted across her body, but she didn't reach for any of them. Instead she stood, braced and ready. Soldiers that they were, they approached her cautiously, staying far enough apart that they wouldn't get in each other's way, and would split her attention.

Then suddenly it began, the second solider losing control of his lust and making a swipe at her, catching one of her arms in his meaty hand. Tristan silently drew his own curved blade, ready to jump in and stop them, but hesitated as he watched her use the man's own momentum against him, making up for the discrepancy between her strength and his large form, and tossing him easily over her hip.

He hit the wall with a painful thump, a groan trailing from his mouth as he struggled unsuccessfully to pull himself up. But the first soldier had already leaped into action and intercepted Marika. They traded blows for a few moments, and Tristan recognized his father's style enough to know that the man had trained her before his death – and that she was holding back. He wondered for a moment, then it occurred to him that it was the same reason she hadn't drawn her blade.

She didn't want to kill them.

This, Tristan did _not_ understand. She was well within her rights to do so, she was defending herself against an attack. These men were not worthy of mercy, and yet she was giving it to them. Foolish, leaving an enemy alive to come after her later.

He was so focused on the fight between Marika and the first soldier that he almost didn't notice the second one approaching her from behind. He'd finally recovered from his abrupt encounter with the wall, and grabbed her from behind, clearly surprising her as well.

Tristan's hand gripped the handle of his blade, ready to jump down and intervene if she couldn't handle the additional trouble. She struggled for a moment, her arms pinned at her sides, effectively capturing her. Almost.

She slumped in the man's hold, causing both the guards to grin with lecherous victory. A dark smile tugged at Tristan's own mouth, but for a very different reason. If there was one thing that he could count on with Marika after fifteen years, it was that she would never give up so easily. That was their mistake – assuming that just because she'd stop fighting, it meant she'd given up the battle altogether.

In that moment, which to an outsider would appear the most dire for the girl...that was when Tristan finally relaxed his grip on his sword. The fight was over, to be sure. But the men had lost, they just hadn't figured it out yet.

The guard holding her whispered something vile in her ear. Tristan couldn't hear the whisper, but the disgust twisting Marika's features was enough that he could guess. Then the man licked her cheek slowly, her head pulling away as much as possible, but her eyes remaining fixed on the man in front.

The guard stepped closer and closer until...yes. She suddenly sprung into action, kicking up and using the guard behind her as leverage as her leg swung towards his face. Her foot connected perfectly with his jaw, the sound echoing through the air as the man spun and fell, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

The guard behind her blinked dumbly for a moment, and she used that second to escape him. Tristan winced in male empathy as she reached down and grabbed a handful of fabric covered flesh between the man's legs and twisting viciously. He man cried out – a few notes higher than normal, Tristan would guess.

The next thing the guard knew, he was on the ground next his friend with his arm twisted behind his back. Tristan watched as she twist once, hard, and the guard yelled out again as his arm broke. Still conscious but apparently smart enough to stay down, the guard huddled in a little ball of misery as Marika straightened and rolled her shoulders.

She didn't bother with any witty last words, instead just dusting off her clothes and checking all her weapons were in place. When she finished, she turn and looked straight at him where he hid on the rooftop. She shouldn't be able to see him, he was just a shadow among shadows, and Tristan blinked in surprise as her icy grey eyes found him without hesitation.

"Enjoy the show?" she asked, raising one dark brow in question.

He dropped down onto the ground silently. She headed for the mouth of the alley, and he followed, deciding that since his cover was broken, he might as well be obvious about shadowing her. As he walked past the men on the ground, the still conscious guard saw him, and judging by the whimper from the man's throat, recognized him. Tristan levelled a long, dead stare on the man as he walked past, feeling smug as the man tried to push himself away across the ground with his one good hand.

"How long?" he asked, not bothering to answer her question as she resumed her walk towards the barracks at the same pace as before.

"The tavern," she replied over her shoulder.

He had known she would sense him, but it still irked him that he didn't know how. He was perfect in his silence, his movements smooth and controlled, his eyes wary for any glimmer or light to give away his presence in the darkness. As a scout, stealth was his calling, his specialty, whether he was watching the enemy's movements or slitting their throats.

Yet no matter how good he was, she always found him. He'd gotten so much better in the fifteen years he'd been away, and yet it seemed, so had she.

"How?" he growled, coming up beside her as they walked. She just smirked, and he felt his anger rise. "You will not tell me?"

"Figure it out yourself," she replied, sounding...bored.

His hands flexed at his side, he dreamed of wrapping them around her creamy pale throat and squeezing the answer out. That thought alone made him pause. He was never known for his way with people, but this sudden anger he had towards her was out of place. Yes, she had sneered and refused to answer his questions. Yes, she had taken liberties with his sister's safety. But he'd never been this tempted to throttle her, even when she was an annoying child. Even in the hall when he'd first seen her, which his hand closed around her throat, he'd never been tempted to squeeze.

He got a hold of himself, drawing on the endless cool calm inside. Control was important, letting emotions get the best of you was weakness. Emotions led to rash actions and fatal mistakes. Squaring his shoulders, he just let it go. If she wanted to tell him, she would, otherwise he'd just think himself in circles trying to figure it out. Better to just improve all aspects of his tracking skills, that way there would be no mistakes in the future.

"You did well," he commented. Clearly she had been trained well by his father. She had control, she didn't panic, and she had restraint.

She gave a snort of disgruntled laughter, shooting him a dark look out of the corner of her eye. "No thanks to you."

He shrugged one shoulder, unrepentant. "You handled it."

"And what if I hadn't?" she asked. She didn't sound angry, more annoyed. He supposed she would be, if she thought he was just going to sit there as she was raped.

But he also knew her well enough to know she wouldn't think that of him. He might be a cold-hearted bastard, but he would never do such a thing, his father had taught him better. Even if it was just on his honour as a knight, since Arthur had granted safe haven to the girls.

"You would prefer I treated you like a weakling? You declare yourself able to protect my sister in your travels and yet you need me to rescue you from two half-drunk Roman guards?" he growled as they approached the barracks.

She laughed at that, surprising him with the soft sound.

"No, I suppose not," she admitted. She sighed as they entered, the stone halls empty since most of the occupants were still out drinking. "I meant what I said to Arthur, Tristan. I don't wish to cause trouble here. Whatever you think of me, you must know how much I care for Veta. I have not, and I will not allow any harm to come to her," she added softly as they approached the door to the rooms she was sharing with his sister.

He nodded, his jaw tight. She was right, of course. He might doubt her abilities, but he knew her intentions - as least towards Veta - were sound. And above all, they were both there, unharmed. Whatever the mistakes of the past, they were just there – in the past. There were some things he could not forgive her for, such as her false promises about her brother.

For twelve years, he and Geheris had felt safe in the promise she'd given – that they'd both gain their freedom. Then for three long years, Tristan had struggled with her lie, accepting that his life could end any moment. He hadn't changed his ways, it was too late for that. But the betrayal was there, the sweet lies she'd spoken the night before they left tainting everything she spoke from then on. Her word was not her word, it was just more lies.

Yet still he didn't doubt her loyalty to Veta, it was the one thing he _did_ trust about her. As a girl, Marika had always cared for Veta without a thought, as though it was as natural as breathing, always putting the younger girl first. Nothing had changed since then, he was certain.

"I know," he replied to her assurances after a pause. "But what you intend and what actually happens are two very different things," he added, having to make it clear.

"You're right, of course," she admitted, and he relaxed a little in knowing that she could recognize the danger. "Just like those guards tonight. I doubt they intended to end their night writhing in pain in a dark alley," she smirked.

He nodded his agreement, feeling a faint smile tugging at his lips, though it never spread as far as his face. "I will see Veta in the morning."

It was her turn to nod, but he waited to leave, noticing her hesitation at the door.

"Until you are free of your duties, I will watch her, see she is cared for. You have my word that you need not worry. Focus on the task at hand, and I will make sure we cause as little disruption as possible. You have enough to concern you as it is," she finished, opening the door and slipping into the quiet room before he could think to reply.

Pausing for a breath before turning sharply on his heel, Tristan stalked back outside and was swallowed up by the night.


End file.
